Work Text:
Reaching out
To touch a stranger
Electric eyes are everywhere
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
See that g̶i̶r̶l boy
Sh̶e He knows I'm watching
S̶h̶e He likes the way I stare
.
.
.
The halls of the factory were dimly lit, seeming almost devoid of life as the factory had begun to close for the day. Most of the employees from each sector and division were already focused on making their way out of the facility. Most… Except for one.
In the heart of the factory’s cafeteria, one man was seen taking his sweet time choosing from and storing the very little assortment of food left that the place had to offer in two separate containers. Doctor Bruno White was not a man who minded doing things for others. With the exception that as long as he'd be left alone later, he'd happily run a few errands to serve as a break from his work. Dealing with people was very, very exhausting.
White had been humming to the tune of one of his favourite songs, his walkman’s ear pads sat just nicely at his ears. He'd resorted to just grabbing a few ‘Nuggie Buddies’ and placing them in his container. It took almost everything in his already depleting self restraint to not laugh at the thought of the name. Ridiculous, yes, but that was the point, was it not?
The scientist didn't really feel like eating much anyways; he lost his appetite after seeing yet another employee that was curious for their own good being fed to Boxy Boo earlier.
The cafeteria manager didn't mind whenever White was around, as both of them maintained quite a close friendship with each other. White skimmed over the remainder of food left as he closed his own container. A corner of his mouth had tilted downwards, obviously not happy with what he had to work with. The manager had looked over to the scientist, not bothering to monitor the new cafeteria attendant cleaning boring old steam table pans. “Food not good enough to feed the big, scary Doctor?”, the manager jibed.
White stifled a snort, removing a part of his ear pads. “Honestly, I don't think anything's good enough to please him,” the scientist replied. Again, he glanced at food, mouth morphing to form a small pout. “Guess I'll have to work with whatever I have. Plain old chicken slice sandwich it is, then. You think he'd appreciate some cheese to go with it?”
The manager shrugged, sneering. “Who knows. All I've heard is to not add sweet pickles to his food. That man turns into a complete lunatic whenever that happens.” The scientist paid his comment no mind, focusing on preparing the food and storing them in the containers. Once he was done, he bid the cafeteria employees goodbye as he descended further down into the factory.
──── 🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺 ────
The cold tiles of the floor below clicked and clacked as Doctor White walked along the seemingly never ending hall. The calming synths playing from his headphones being the only thing to break the heavy silence of the lower labs. He pulled off the earphones, letting them rest on his shoulders.
As the scientist neared his superior's office, a loud thud could be heard from behind the door.
Crack!
It was faint, but anyone who was attentive enough could hear the sound of glass breaking onto a carpet.
White attempted to knock on the door in a series of three, as usual.
Growing impatient at the lack of response, he placed his hand on the handle and twisted it. The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open. The copper tang of blood and the smoky, ashy scent of scotch hit his olfactory organs the way the smell of a rotting corpse would to most. White covered his nose with a hand briefly while the other swatted the lingering musty smell in the room. He had a certain distaste for the smell of drinking ethanol; the sickeningly sweet heavy congeners were always revolting to him. Not to mention, he could practically taste the ‘iodine’ in the drink as well.
Doctor Sawyer was on the floor, body leaned by his desk. The man’s usually pristine lab coat was rumpled, his breathing shallow and uneven as he stared blankly at his own hand. Strands of dark rope-like coils of hair fell across his face, obscuring the usual unpredictable glint in his eyes. Around The Doctor, lay the glittering, jagged remains of a test tube. Sawyer seemed to mutter a few incomprehensible words to himself, his voice was dangerously low, slurring just enough to betray the alcohol in his system. He didn’t look up.
Doctor White pondered for a moment.
He quietly ghosted his hand over the foam headphones around his neck, the quiet rhythm of the music still pulsing against his collarbone. The right-hand man set the containers on a clean counter, stepped over most of the shards of glass, and knelt directly into the mess before him.
"Give me your hand," White said softly.
White didn’t wait for the other’s permission. He reached out, his fingers wrapping firmly but gently around The Doctor’s forearm to pull his hand into the dim overhead light from the still-exposed-hallway.
Sawyer’s jaw tightened at the invasion of space. A sharp, defensive remark begging to be uttered but died in his throat as the cold air of the hall hit the open laceration across his palm. He wanted to yank his hand back and demand that his assistant leave him alone but couldn’t. The sheer exhaustion of his overstimulated mind kept weighing him down to the ground. Every fluorescent light above felt too bright for comfort; the quiet hum of the room’s ventilation system was a grating roar in his ears. He hadn’t even remembered why the room’s main lights were on. Had he been working on something earlier?
White got up, looking around for a simple medical kit in the office before returning to tend to Sawyer. He popped open the plastic latches of the medical kit that made Sawyer’s shoulders tense.
Snap.
"Hold still," White murmured. His voice was flat, devoid of the pity or judgment that Sawyer so fiercely despised from others in such a sorry state. White uncapped a familiar red-coloured bottle: Povidone. He didn't pour it directly onto the cut. He knew better than to worsen his superior’s already sour mood. Rather, he poured normal saline and the iodine into two sections of a disposable plastic container he found in the kit. Carefully, White soaked a piece of sterile gauze into the brown liquid, then into the clear fluid.
When the damp cotton pressed against the raw skin, Sawyer let out a sharp, hissed breath through his nose. His fingers twitched instinctively, wanting to jerk away. However White’s grip on his wrist didn't waver. It remained a heavy, unmoving anchor.
"I know," Bruno said quietly, his eyes focused entirely on wiping away the crimson smears, carefully checking for any embedded slivers of glass. Luckily, Sawyer kept forceps in the kit as well. So White carefully extracted the remaining shards as best as he could. It wasn’t practical, no. But White was the only other medical professional that could handle the task easily besides Sawyer himself.
"Almost done."
Sawyer stared down at the crown of White's head, watching the way the dim light caught the edges of his hair. The faint, catchy rhythm of the soft pop song still leaked from the headphones resting on his assistant’s shoulders.
“Michael again?” Harley asked.
Bruno hummed in response.
The steady, overlapping loops of bandages covering the gauze began to hide the messy reality of the wound. Bruno worked without a word, his thumbs smoothing down the edges of the medical tape with gentle, deliberate pressure.
“Hungry?” Bruno queried, obviously knowing the answer to his own question.
Harley kept his eyes locked on Bruno’s face, searching for the catch in his words. He knew how the world worked; people didn’t go through such a hassle unless they needed a favour. He sighed, defeated.
“Yes.”
──── 🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺 ────
The song in Bruno’s walkman echoed in his ears repeatedly as he quietly munched on his sandwich. The other man was busy cleaning up the stains of blood and disposing of the glass shards on his carpet. Just moments ago, the other had already helped him up and sat him on a chair by the side. He stared at the soft, smooth curve of Bruno’s jaw. He definitely wanted something from him, Harley decided. That had to be it. The other wasn't just a quiet, unassuming scientist. He was an intelligent individual. That was why Harley requested that he work under him in the early 1990s anyways. Bruno was executing a flawless strategy to slip past his defenses, waiting for the perfect moment of weakness to strike.
It was a terrifying thought, but it was the only explanation that made sense to him. If someone was going to try and get close to him, it couldn't be out of simple pity. It… It had to be some form of manipulation.
E̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶p̶a̶r̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶k̶n̶e̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶.
Harley finished his food as Bruno himself was almost done with the cleanup.
“Stupid Leith. Always plotting something to disrupt my work,” Harley spoke absentmindedly.
His right-hand man disposed of the waste in a corner before raising an eyebrow at the statement. The other walked over to Harley. Bruno knelt and held his bandaged hand to examine it.
“You don’t hate him.”
The Head of Special Projects frowned. “Pardon?”
“I said you don’t hate him. We both know you don’t. You’re just bitter that he’s a typical dumb salesman. And… an annoying one at that I suppose.”
Harley’s eyes softened at his assistant’s offhanded comment. It was true, to some extent. Not that he’d admit it out loud, Leith had no part in the accident anyways.
"Can you stand?" Bruno’s quiet voice broke through the moment. The auburn-haired man was already standing up, extending a hand to help him off the seat. The same, neutral look plastered on his face. Harley placed his uninjured hand into the other’s palm, hating how vulnerable he felt at the moment. As Bruno pulled him up, the world around him tilted slightly from the alcohol, but Bruno's grip stayed firm, instantly absorbing the shock.
"Come on," said Bruno, grabbing his untouched food container and draping Harley's arm carefully over his shoulder to steady him. "Let's get out of this place. I'm driving you home."
“Oh and, Doctor Sawyer?”
“Yes?”
“Please try to drink less. I don’t want to imagine the state of your liver at this point.”
──── 🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺 ────
The harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights of Playtime Co. finally faded into the dark, replaced by the deep, rhythmic hum of the car’s engine. Inside the car, the world was small, dim, and mercifully quiet. The dashboard emitted a repeating faint, amber glow that cast long shadows across Bruno as he kept his eyes on the empty road.
Harley leaned his head back against the cool leather seat, his eyes half-closed. The smell of old coffee, cold air, and the faint trace of Bruno’s cologne acted like a sensory blanket, completely dampening the noise outside. His hand, neatly swaddled in clean white gauze, rested in his lap.
The rhythm of the song was still stuck in Harley's mind, slower now, matching the steady click of the turn signal as Bruno navigated the dark streets. Harley watched as his assistant's gloved hands shifted gears.
Harley’s chest tightened with a strange, bitter fascination. His mind stubbornly refused to accept that this was really happening.
‘Fine’, Harley thought. Defiance sparked through his drunken haze as he looked towards the road once again. If it was a game, then he wouldn’t be one to easily shy away. He wouldn't sit here and let his right-hand man have it his way. He wouldn't be bested.
The car glided to a smooth stop right in front of Harley’s dark house. Bruno shifted into the parking gear, the engine dropping to a low hum. The silence in the car was heavy, as expected of the awkward interaction earlier.
Bruno White didn't push him to get out, nor did he say a word. He just turned his head, his calm eyes searching for Harley’s own in the dark.
“White?”
“Yes?”
“You… Why are you doing this? You live further away from here, and instead you drove me home. I could have just slept at the factory.”
Bruno nodded. “I… I couldn’t just leave you. You could have gotten injured—”
“So you take me for a weakling?” Harley argued, tone slightly raised in accusation.
“No.”
Silence followed for a long time after that. None of the two men wanted to further the conversation earlier.
Suddenly, Harley chose to act differently.
Before Bruno could speak, Harley reached out with his uninjured hand, his fingers curling into the collar of Bruno's coat to pull him forward.
Harley closed the distance, pressing his lips against Bruno’s in a sharp, sudden kiss.
It wasn't a confession of any sorts. It was a desperate attempt to grasp control from whatever had been happening the whole night. It was his own way of stating that he was still the one in control.
Bruno however didn't fight for dominance. The man didn't smirk, and he didn't pull away. Instead, his response was entirely gentle, contrasting Harley’s predictions. He let out a soft, warm breath against Harley’s lips, his hand calmly moving up to carefully anchor the back of Harley's neck, accepting the kiss at whatever pace his superior demanded of him. For a fleeting second, the steady warmth of the other’s lips stunned Harley Sawyer entirely, shutting out the rest of the world.
When Harley finally pulled back, breathing slightly harder, he searched Bruno's face for a smug victory. But there was none.
Bruno just looked at him with that same look he always gave him. Mossy, golden oculi gazed into his very own, sunlight fractured across the irises like stained glass. He felt like he was drowning, the sunbursts of colour dulling all of his senses. He couldn’t get himself to look away, no matter how hard he tried. Imbecile. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He could’ve shoved him away, kicked him out of the car.
Harley let go of Bruno's collar, his bandaged hand tingling.
“White… This… We’ll talk about this… later.”
Without a single word, Harley pushed the car door open and stepped out into the freezing night.
The heavy click of the car door shutting behind him snapped him back into reality. Walking up to his front porch, the fleeting warmth they had shared in the car was already evaporating into the night air, leaving him beautifully, terribly undone.
Slowly, he grazed his fingers over his lips.
What had he done?
──── 🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺 ────
Bruno watched as Harley eventually stumbled into his house, locking the door behind with a click. He couldn’t bring himself to move a muscle, he didn’t know what to do. Would a slight movement of his shatter what had just unfolded? He didn’t want to think about what happened, nor what would eventually happen in the future.
Harley was drunk. Drunk people do irrational things all the time.
Yes.
That was exactly it.
…And, it was wrong, no? To love another man?
For years he had tried to suppress his unknown feelings for Sawyer. Even since the 60s, he… he was undeniably entertained by the other. But, ‘entertain’ wasn’t the proper word for it either.
For years he’d try to give up on all hope between them. Especially when Ludwig kicked Harley out. Bruno had chosen to continue burying himself in his papers, avoiding all instances where he could mourn Harley’s departure. It wasn’t fair.
Bruno slowly lifted his hand, hovering it over his face. His horrid, stained face with all of the blotches and imperfections the world scrutinised. It would be nice, to have someone to caress your face. With those calloused, worn hands. They resembled the night sky, in some way. ‘Enchanting’, a poet would say. Someone who would hold you close, gaze into your eyes as if nothing else mattered in the world. He held strands of his hair. Someone… who would not ridicule the texture of your hair, nor shame you for your hide. It would be nice, to hold onto someone and let your love consume your very being. To be intertwined so closely, you both would fuse together. And nothing would ever tear you apart ever again.
If there truly was someone he wanted to… love, yes, ‘love’ was right. If there truly was, there was only one other person he would surrender his entire existence into. For who was he, without another to act as a catalyst in his life?
Bruno stared into nothing, knowing a world like that was never possible. Not even if a thousand people sacrificed their lives for it.
After all, who would ever choose to love a person whose face, skin, heart, and soul was nothing but ugly?
.
.
.
If they say — “Why, why?”
Tell 'em that it's human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
If they say — “Why, Why?”
Tell 'em that it's human nature
Why, why, does he do me that way
I like livin' this way
I like lovin' this way
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
That way
That way
⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
Song Title: Michael Jackson — Human Nature (1982)